"No," she thought again, "no, I must stick to the truth. Let it cost what it will, not even to save my own or my father's life will I depart from the truth. I will obey God rather than man, and trust Him for the rest."

In a clear but tremulous voice she then answered—

"If I say I had the ring, it would be a lie; and, though this falsehood would save my life, I cannot utter it. But," she entreated, "if life is demanded, spare at least the white hairs of my loved father. I should be glad to shed my blood for him."

Her words touched the hearts of all the people in the court. Even the judge, for all his severity, was deeply moved; but he remained silent, and, giving the signal, Mary was taken back to prison.

CHAPTER VI.

A PAINFUL MEETING.

Not for a long time had the judge been so perplexed as he was over Mary's case.

"For three days," he said, "it has been before us, and we have not made the least advance towards the solution of the mystery. If I could see any possibility of the ring having been taken by any one else, I should certainly believe this girl innocent, but the evidence is so clear against her, that it is impossible to believe anything else."

The Countess was again examined and questioned thoroughly; the minutest circumstances being inquired into. Juliette was also examined again.

A whole day was spent by the judge in going over their testimony, and weighing against it the words that Mary had uttered in her examination. It was late at night when the judge sent to the prison for Mary's father to be brought to his house.

"James," said he kindly, "I am known perhaps as a strict man, but I do not think that you can reproach me with ever having intentionally injured any one. I do not need to tell you that I do not desire the death of your daughter. All the details of the case, however, prove that she must have committed the theft, and, under these circumstances, you are aware that the penalty which the law requires is death. But your daughter is young, and, notwithstanding the serious nature of the crime, if she were to return the ring even now, a pardon might be granted to her. To persist so obstinately in denying her guilt will most certainly end in her death. Go to her, James; insist upon her returning the ring, and I give you my word that the penalty of death will not be visited upon her, but a mere trifling punishment substituted. As her father you have great power over her. If you cannot obtain a confession, most people will think that you have been an accomplice with your daughter in the crime. Once more, I repeat, if the ring is not found, I pity your case."

"My daughter has not stolen the ring," replied James sadly; "of that I am sure. That she will not therefore acknowledge her guilt, I know beforehand. But I will speak to her as you desire. I will employ every means to find it out, and if it be that she is to perish, notwithstanding her innocence, it is a comfort to know that I can see her once again before the terrible event."

Accompanied by an officer, the old man went to the prison where Mary was confined. The officer set a lamp upon a projection of the wall in a corner of the cell, on which also stood an earthen pitcher of water. Mary was lying on her straw bed, with her face turned towards the wall, partially asleep. The light of the lamp woke her from her troubled slumber, and, turning over and seeing her father, she uttered a cry of joy and raised herself hastily, forgetting her chains. Almost fainting, she threw herself upon her father's neck, and the old man sat down with her upon her bed and pressed her in his arms. For some time they both remained silent and mingled their tears together. At length James broke the silence and began to speak as the judge had instructed him.

"She raised herself hastily, forgetting her chains."
See page 44.

"Oh, my father," said Mary, in a reproachful voice, interrupting him, "surely you at least do not doubt my innocence. Alas," she continued, weeping bitterly, "is there no one who believes me innocent, no one, not even my father! Oh, my dear father, believe me that I am innocent."

"Calm yourself, my dear child; I believe you entirely. I am only doing now what I have been instructed to do by the judge."

There was a silence for a little while in the cell. The old man looked at his daughter and saw her cheeks pale and hollow with grief, her eyes red and swollen with weeping, and her hair hanging dishevelled about her.

"My dear child," he said, "God has suffered you to be tried very severely; but I fear lest there should be a worse trial to come, more painful sufferings than any you have yet undergone. Alas, perhaps even my dear child's head may fall by the hands of the executioner!"

"My father," said Mary soothingly, "I care but little for myself. But for you——"

"Fear nothing for me, my dear Mary," said her father, "I run no risk——"

"Oh," cried Mary, "thank God! If that is the case, a great load is taken off my heart. For myself, all is well. Be sure, my dear father, I fear not to die. I shall go to God; I shall find my Saviour. I shall also see my mother in heaven. That will be a great happiness."

Deeply moved at his daughter's words, the old man wept like a child.

"Well, God be praised," said he, clasping his aged hands together, "God be praised for your submissive spirit. It is very hard for a man stricken in years, for a tender father to lose his only child, the child of his love, his only consolation, the joy of his old age, and his last support, but," he continued, "may the will of the Lord be done."

"One word," said he, a moment afterwards; "Juliette has sworn falsely against you. On her oath she has declared that she saw the ring in your hands. If you perish, you will perish by her testimony. But you will pardon her, my Mary—is it not so? You do not take with you any feeling of hatred towards her. Alas, even upon this bed of straw, and loaded with chains, you are still more happy than she is, living in the Countess's palace and dressed in fine clothes, and with everything that her heart can desire. It is better to die innocent than to live dishonoured. Pardon her, my child, as thy Saviour pardoned His enemies on the cross. Do you pardon her?" the old man asked anxiously.

Mary assured her father that she did. And now the officer was heard coming to separate them.

"Well," said her father, "I commend you to God and His grace. If I should not see you again, if this is the last time that I am permitted to talk with you, my daughter, at least be sure that I will not be long in following you to heaven. You may depend upon it that I shall not long survive this parting."

The time was now up, and, warned by the officer, the old man prepared to take his departure. Mary clung to him with all her strength, but her father was obliged to disengage himself as gently as he could, and Mary fell insensible upon her bed.

As soon as James was brought before the judge, he raised his hands to heaven, and cried out, almost beside himself—

"My daughter is innocent!"

The judge was deeply moved.

"I am disposed," he said, "for my own part to believe it. Unfortunately, I must judge the case from the nature of the testimony, with impartiality and even to the utmost rigour of the law."

CHAPTER VII.

SENTENCED.

In the village of Eichbourg the case of Mary and the missing ring were the only subjects of conversation, and many were the speculations as to what the result of the case would be. At the period when Mary lived, the crime of theft was always visited with severe punishment, and in many cases the sentence of death